Landslide
by Fleur27
Summary: a short story on matt - has spoilers from 4.04.


**Spoilers: Through 4.04. Action continues past that episode, but is just speculative.**

**Author's Note: Recently, I read "Placed all my Trust at the Foot of this Hill" (on livejournal) by gigglemonster. It was so beautiful - wispy and poetic, kind of like watching someone else's life through lace curtains. It had a unique voice, which is one of those things that writing teachers harp on all the time but I'm not sure that voice can be taught. **

**Anyway, I wanted to try to write something with a lighter voice than my writing usually has. This is my attempt. **

**Disclaimer:** **I don't own anything here and am just doing this for fun.**

* * *

Julie answers the door crying and Matt feels like his world has fallen out of synch. Like in elementary school, when sometimes the teacher advanced the filmstrip to the next frame ahead of the narration on the cassette tape.

But no, Julie hasn't heard his words because he hasn't said them out loud yet. Not to her. Not to Riggins. Not even to himself.

But still, she's crying. Then she says the words that will ring in his ears for the next three days. The words that wipe his mind clean. The words that change everything. _Your father....he was killed. _

* * *

Matt takes care of Grandma while Shelby handles everything else, sitting at the kitchen table, drawing up lists and making phone calls. The very picture of grim, shell-shocked efficiency.

Shelby says his name three times before he responds. _The minister wants to know if you want to give the eulogy at the funeral._

Matt stammers out his response. He's not really a public speaker. And he has no idea what to say. Shelby smiles and assures him that it's not a requirement, it was just a courtesy, since the minister only met his father a handful of times.

Matt nods, thinking that he'd seen his father much more but maybe knew him even less.

* * *

It takes three sleeping pills and an Ativan to make Grandma calm enough to sleep. Even with the medication, her eyes don't start to close until dawn is pinking up the sky in the east.

Matt finds himself too twitchy to do anything but toss and turn. He gives up after an hour and pulls on sweatpants and a sweatshirt.

Then he walks, not even paying attention to where his legs are taking him. Reality feels dim, quiet, and far away.

* * *

Matt loses count of the number of sympathetic-looking people who stop by to drop off flowers, casserole dishes, huge platters of cold cuts, Dutch ovens filled with soup.

Grandma always said _Starve a fever, feed a cold_. Apparently, grief requires even more food than a cough and stuffed up nose.

After his fiftieth awkward expression of gratitude, Matt goes outside and throws footballs through the tire. The repetitive motion is soothing but nothing can entirely soothe away the dull ache and confusion in his heart.

* * *

Grandma keeps asking what happens next, but Matt doesn't know the real answer. So he focuses on the little things. _Next? You put your slippers on. Next? You talk to Mrs. Callahan. Next? You pick out a dress to wear to the funeral._

He wishes someone would tell him what happens next. When she drops off a tray of lasagna, Mrs. Taylor nearly answers his unasked question. _Don't make any decisions just yet. It's going to take awhile for you to regain your equilibrium._

Matt doesn't know how to tell her that he feels like he lost his equilibrium at Billy Riggins' wedding, when he made the decision to stay in Dillon.

* * *

At the grave, he stands between Grandma and Julie. The air is heavy with words, but they don't reach him. All he can process right now are the images.

The crisply folded flag held in Grandma's shaking hands. The sweat pooling just above the minister's collar. The bee buzzing around the flower arrangement.

* * *

While strangers mill through the house after the funeral, Matt remembers that he needed to drop off the soldering iron at Richard's studio. Julie tries to reason with him, but Matt insists, and he insists on going alone.

In the quiet car, he can relax and let his mind wander. He wonders what would have happened if he'd tried harder, been more understanding, made more concessions when his father came home from Iraq a few years ago. Would he have stayed? Would he still be alive?

He knows something now that he didn't know then. Little things can change the currents and the course of life, subtly, by degrees, until you don't know who you are or how you got to this place.

* * *

_Where the hell you been all day?_ asks Richard, his words slightly slurred and his tone belligerent.

_I'm sorry. I was burying my father_. It sound like a rough-edged warning, but Richard has always been a guy who thinks it's funny to wave a red flag in front of a bull.

_Good. Now you got nobody's expectations to live up to. Maybe you can cut those apron strings, lose the ball and chain. Get out there in the big bad world and do some living._

_Excuse me_? Matt can feel the small muscle just below his eye twitch.

_Take advantage of this. It's your big chance. You already pissed away your first chance and you might not get another._

Matt hasn't hit anyone since second grade, when Tim Riggins stole Landry's lunch money. But this is it. The last domino, the chain reaction, the landslide, and his fist connects with Richard's jaw.

His hand stings, but his mind is finally quiet.

* * *

Richard takes a slug of bourbon and then passes the bottle to Matt. He winces but manages to choke down a good swallow. It burns all the way down and then sends a feeling of warmth radiating through him.

_You remember when we were at that junkyard, and you asked me if I can see things in the junk?_

Matt nods and passes the bottle back. _Yeah, you made me feel like a jackass._

_Yeah, well... you know what I see when I look at you? I see a guy who's giving away so many pieces of himself, pretty soon, he's going to have nothing left._

* * *

Matt drives home slowly, hoping the couple of slugs of bourbon haven't put him over the legal limit. As he approaches his street, the temptation to keep driving is nearly overwhelming.

His father used to say_You can do things two ways: the higgledy-piggledy way or the right way. _

Matt takes a deep breath and then pulls into the driveway. He's going to do things the right way, but he's really going to do it this time, while he still has some pieces left.


End file.
